The Contract Rebecca's Lost Journals, Volume 2(6)
“I won’t let him.”
“I won’t let him. Do you understand, Ms. Mason?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“You aren’t convincing me.”
“Yes,” I said more clearly. “I understand.”
I left his office confused and bemused. I’ve gone from having virtually no men in my life to being surrounded by powerful, talented, rich, controlling men, and it’s messing with my head. I can’t seem to figure out where I stand and where I belong.
When I took the client to Ricco’s gallery, the woman didn’t make a purchase and I felt embarrassed. I wanted to impress Ricco and Mark with a sale. I wanted Ricco to know I am not wasting his time. He looked at me with gentle, understanding eyes that twisted me in knots. There is nothing about him that says manipulative to me. Nothing that says he is what everyone else says he is.
I left with my client, wishing I could have stayed and talked to Ricco. I didn’t call him later in the day, either, though I was tempted. I don’t know what it is about him that sets everyone else off, but it doesn’t happen to me. If anything, he relaxes me. Well, when I put aside how talented and famous he is.
I’m feeling very out of control. I need to figure out what is wrong with me. I have a dream job. This is what I’ve always wanted. I need to snap out of whatever is bugging me, and I’m hoping the weekend will give me time to think.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Evening . . .
I decided what was bugging me was the contract, and my constant distraction due to the ideas it represents. No matter how tempting the man, the agreement is simply a deal breaker, and I think its being up in the air is influencing how I react to everything. Saying no to this contract is a good thing. This man is barely in my life and he’s already taken it over. He can be in my life without taking it over if I take this off the table.
So . . . I emailed him the instant I got home, before I could talk myself out of it. The subject line was: Contract is a deal breaker. The content of the email read simply, “While you are more than a little tempting in all kinds of ways, I’m not slave material.” That was an hour ago, and I keep checking my email—which is telling, isn’t it? Clearly I don’t want this to be over, or I’d consider it done now.
Someone just knocked on my door. It’s eleven o’clock at night. Who the hell is here?
Sunday, February 27, 2011
I could barely believe it when he showed up at my door in response to my email. I just stood there, staring at him, wrapped in a robe and horrified that I had on my ugly fluffy pajamas underneath.
“Invite me in, Rebecca.”
Obediently, I stepped back and let him inside. He shut the door and locked it. Now he just stood there, staring at me, and curiously, I thought I spotted a hint of uncertainty in his eyes. He’s not exactly what I would call uncertain. He’s not exactly what anyone would call uncertain. That I could make him feel such a thing told me what I needed to know. The outcome of what was between us wasn’t simply a contract to him. I didn’t realize until then how much I didn’t want to be that to him.
“Let’s sit,” he ordered, no uncertainty left in his voice or his expression.
I wet my lips, his eyes following my tongue, and my nipples tightened and my sex clenched with the small, sensual act. With all the things that happened afterward, you’d think that would be the last thing that I’d keep replaying in my head. But it was that, along with the instant of uncertainty I’d seen in him, that told me he wanted me as much as I wanted him. These two things set the scene for what was to follow.
“Sit, Rebecca,” he ordered again, and I was jolted from his spell and walked to the couch. My tiny box of an apartment embarrassed me; it’s a shack compared to his gorgeous place. If he noticed, though, which of course he did, he didn’t show it. He was looking at nothing but me.